Come See About Me
by TheSilentPen
Summary: "We really need you... Quinn needs you." Rachel gets a call in the middle of the night from a desperate Santana the day before Thanksgiving. Something is wrong with Quinn, and Rachel is the only one who can do something about it. Faberry friendship and slight romance. Slightly AU Season 3 and 4.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Glee or any of its characters.

**A/N: **Hey, TheSilentPen here. I saw all of you on Tumblr… I couldn't leave you guys like that. So I have a present for all of you… I had to fix everything. I really hope you enjoy it. It's a gift to fix the mistakes that happened tonight.

**Review** and let me know what you think, hmmm?

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**Come See About Me**

_TheSilentPen_

* * *

The call came about a day before Thanksgiving.

You honestly hadn't been expecting it.

Your contact with Lima, Ohio had been limited since you came to New York. You made sure to keep it that way. Terminating your old Facebook account, getting a new phone number (you kept a select few numbers in it—Santana, Kurt, Blaine, and Quinn), and getting rid of every single trace of Finn left in your life.

Your eyes opened once the haze of High School years had been wiped from your mind.

You arrived in New York as a pitiful, tearful thing, left at the train station by your groom and sent off with a suitcase to move into a tiny, paint-chipped studio apartment that had seen better days. Your fathers picked you up at Grand Central station and held your hand as they walked you through the bustling, claustrophobic streets of New York City.

They took you straight to Broadway and made you stand at the heart and stare up at the signs… all the shows, all the stories being told. All the shows _you_ wanted to star in someday. All the stages you'd wanted to perform in, once upon a time.

You stood there, took a good, hard look at everything. Took a good, hard look at all the marquees that you had wanted to fill with your name, written in exuberant neon lights.

…Much to your horror, you feel _nothing_.

No excitement. No sense of accomplishment.

_Nothing_.

Just the emptiness. The panging numbness left after Finn tore your heart from your chest with his thoughtless abandonment.

A year ago when you stood here, single and hopeful, with Kurt at your side, you'd felt that anticipation, that drive to succeed.

You stood there, held out your arms, smiled, and said "this is where I belong."

…You didn't feel like you could say that anymore.

That's when you know something's wrong.

That's when you know that you aren't yourself anymore. And you know that's to blame for it.

Finn… Your relationship… Your desperation to keep things the same.

You don't know when, and you hadn't realized it till that moment…

But you'd come to depend more on your stable, dead existence as "Ms. Finn Hudson" rather than your future as a Broadway singer.

You were not Rachel Berry anymore.

You were a shadow. A ghost of her masquerading around in her body.

You had to fix it.

So you returned to the very heart of the problem. The thing that had started everything in the first place. The thing… no, the _person_ that had taken away your drive in the first place.

Finn.

It took you several weeks of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, before daring to do anything.

You started with the pictures. It had been easy enough to do. You wiped all the pictures from your iPhone, took every single picture hanging off the corkboard and shredded them to pieces with scissors.

Music went next. The 'Finchel' playlist is immediately gone from your iTunes library, along with any and every song you possess that is about him, original or covered.

Facebook followed shortly after that. You couldn't have any sort of access to him. The desire to PM him or message him is too great a temptation.

Then your phone.

The digits of his cell phone number are burned evenly into your mind, even when you get your new number. Your fingers itched to call. To hear his voice.

So you program it into your phone…

Under the name "Douchebag Who Abandoned Me."

It serves as stark reminder every you scroll down to his number on the contacts list or hit it on speed dial, finger hanging over the green call button.

You enrolled in NYADA's summer program as a last minute applicant, desperate to feel the music fill the emptiness in your chest. To do something other than sit in bed, stare at that cracked, water damaged ceiling, and think about _him_.

Dance lessons are terrible. The professor, Cassandra July, is a she-devil with a pretty face. She yelled constantly at you, told you that you're worthless, that you don't have a prayer of making it on Broadway. That you'll never be anything more than a pathetic little girl from Iowa ("I'm from Ohio," you corrected her softly one day. "That's even worse," she sneered at you, eyes darkening in rage).

You ignored it. You pushed through it. You became _twice_ as determined to prove her wrong.

Because you knew… you _still_ know that you're _meant_ to be something _far_ _greater_ than a common chorus girl. You're more than a Midwestern belle come to fail in the big city and go home crying with her tail between her legs.

You can do _better_ than that.

You're _sure_ of it.

(_Quinn told you so_).

Little by little, the old you returns. Muscles left untrained for days after skipping dance classes in favor of date nights are re-toned. A voice left silenced was practiced again again till your throat was sore and your pitch perfect ear returned to you.

Days flow into months, and soon you're well adjusted into NYADA and a better performer than you'd _ever_ been in High School.

The professors aren't easy on you. They push and shove and beat you into working till your toes bleed and you cough raspily, rubbing at your mutilated throat.

But you're willing to try. You're willing to make it work. God, you want everything too much.

It _has _to work.

(_Quinn told you it __**would**__)._

You crawled your way to where you are now, comfortably sitting near the top of your class.

It hadn't been without struggle… without temptation (Junior Brody Weston has asked you out on more than _one_ occasion…).

But you're stronger for it.

You left Lima behind. Left it so far behind you, you can't even remember what it was like to be there, even though you were there just a few months ago.

Kurt is your only connection to McKinley. To the way things were.

He moved there to chase _his_ dreams, just like you moved to chase yours.

You're kindred spirits. You understand each other perfectly.

(_Even though you know that less than a thousand miles away, there's someone who understands you more, waiting for you… Not a day goes by that you don't think about the ticket sitting lonesome in your nightstand_ _drawer)_.

You don't need Lima as long as you have each other and your dreams.

But Lima decides to catch up with you, to force you to remember it.

And it all comes in that single call the day before Thanksgiving.

You slowly pick up the phone, hand trembling as you look down at the display '_Santana Lopez_' shining bright through the relative darkness of the room.

You take a shaky breath in.

God… you weren't prepared for the past to catch up so quickly.

You might have had Santana's number, but she's never called before today. Not since you graduated.

You punch the answer button, lifting it to your ear.

"…Hello?"

"_Berry? Is that you?"_

"…Yes. Santana, what's wrong, how can I help you?"

"_How do you know something's wrong?"_

"Would you have called me otherwise?"

There's a slight pause over the line. In your mind's eye you can see Santana standing stone still, eyes closing in acceptance, guilt thick on her tongue.

You know because you saw it when you became demi-friends in High School toward the end of the year.

"So what's wrong?" You break the silence.

"It's…" there's a pause again, this time to figure out the phrasing. "It's Quinn."

Your breath catches in your lungs and a sort of panic envelopes you. The same sort of sick, twisting feeling low in your stomach from the day of the car accident.

You remember seeing Quinn lying there, helpless and broken. The stark white, blood soaked cast of her arm and leg, the purpling of the bruises about her face, and the obscene tubing issuing forth from her throat, eyes swollen shut.

You remember sitting there, crying, holding whatever fingers lay unscathed and apologizing for everything. You remember seeing her crack her eyes open and the light return to her eyes.

You remember her smiling up at you from her wheelchair. Tearful, confused eyes looking at you as she parted her lips and spoke to you.

"_When you were singing that song… you were singing it to Finn and..."_ An exhalation, the bite of a lip and the trail of eyes to the left before they burned back into yours. "_…And only Finn, right?"_

(_You want to say it was __**never**__ about Finn… That you know better now)_.

"_I want to make sure we keep in touch."_

It all comes flooding back to you in one giant wave of emotion that seeps deep into your marrow and saturates your thoughts.

You force your mouth open, trying to sound level headed. "What… what about Quinn?"

And Santana tells you. She tells you about Quinn dating a _married_ Yale professor. Quinn letting a man define herself. Quinn looking so broken beneath that confident, upstanding mask of hers.

"I know it's really last notice, Berry but…" there's a slight sigh. "She never listened to any of us, she only listened to _you_. We really need you."

A swallow.

"_Quinn _really needs you."

You don't give it much thought after that.

You book an emergency flight back to Lima that _very_ night. It's at an ungodly hour and you have to get up at the very _crack_ of dawn to drag your ass onto the plane, but the sooner you get there, the sooner you can talk with Quinn.

You land in Lima around 10 AM, bolt to your fathers' house to drop off your luggage, then make a quick call to a familiar number for a favor.

…It's hard, hearing his voice against after so many months.

You know what happened in the military. How he shot himself (you'd scoffed to yourself for several long moments because really, who cleans a _loaded_ gun?) and ended up back in Lima.

You know that he still loves you. You can hear it in the wistful edge in his voice as he speaks softly to you, giving you permission to borrow the choir room.

But you don't feel anything for him anymore.

Your heart doesn't jump when you see him again. Doesn't flip when he smiles that boyish, once charming grin at you.

You can't muster any sort of love for him.

And it's a relief.

"_There's nothing more soothing than looking at someone you used to care for_," one of your professors said to you one day, looking out the window into the quad, watching the students strolling by, "_and watch them go by… and not feel a thing for them anymore."_

You're inclined to agree.

You have Santana agree to bring Quinn to the school.

You sit there, at the piano, running your fingers over the keys and smiling in soft remembrance.

A year ago, you stood here, and you were so _painfully _naïve.

So painfully innocent.

One person tried to tell you the truth.

Tried to save you.

But you had to stumble and fall yourself. Scrape your knees to find out the truth.

You chuckle.

How times have changed.

There's the slight rattle of the door opening. Your fingers freeze on the keys as you hear the 'click' of it closing and the soft tap of heels walking over to you.

You turn on the bench, resting your hands on your jean-clad knees, looking up into greenish hazel eyes for the first time in six months.

"Hello Quinn," you say softly, a slight, sad smile on your face.

There's something poetic about this. How the tides have turned. How she once sat in your place two or so years ago and told you the blunt truth. How you ran away crying like a scared girl.

And she looks the same. With her hair long once more, settling prettily on her shoulders, slight frame accented by the tailored lines of her light blue dress.

The same, knowing eyes with that hint of sadness in them.

"Rachel…" her voice is smoky against your ears. "…I should've known something was up. Santana never volunteers to drive… And the school…"

"Santana told me everything," you see no reason to waste time. This situation does not call for your verbosity. "About Yale… about your psychology professor."

"It's none of her business," Quinn's reply is quick and sharp, her eyes blazing. "And it's none of _yours_. You two aren't in my life anymore, so you can't te-."

"I'm your _friend_, Quinn," you interject. God, you won't back down now. "I have every right to give a damn about you. To advise you.

"Six months ago, you told me I couldn't let Finn define me. That I was good enough to do this on my own… to make it to New York," you look down. "I learned my lesson the hard way. I should've listened to you. You were right all along, and I was too blind to see it…"

Your eyes snap up. "A year ago, you advised me. You were my friend… Please let me advise you… Let me _help_ you."

"You have no right to-."

"I have _every _right to-."

"You forgot about me!" her voice is a stark cry that echoes through the room.

Your eyes widen. "I never fo-."

"You _never _forgot me, Rachel?" Quinn's eyes are blazing. "Then why haven't I heard a single word from you in six months. Why haven't you gotten on the goddamned train and used that ticket I gave you?

"Where were you when I struggled to find my place at Yale? When I felt overwhelmed during the first month because I didn't know how to adjust… When I was alone because none of those preppy, snobby bitches gave a _damn_ about me," her voice is a sob. "Where were you when… when I needed you most?"

Your eyes are pained. "_Quinn…"_

"Six months!" she continued on. "Six months without hearing a word from… from the one person whose opinions mean the _world_ to me… And the only person who gave a damn about me is my 45 year old psychology professor."

"You think _he _cares about you?" You scoff. "He's thinking with his dick! All he wants is a pretty girl to warm his bed. A to-."

*SMACK!*

The slap rings true through the room, throwing your head off to the side as you brace your hands against the piano.

It sings, you think with a smile. You chuckle a bit, putting your hand to your cheek as you rub it.

"Rachel… I'm so-."

"You know, most girls would hate getting slapped," you grin as you look back up at her, where she stands, hands over her mouth, appalled. "But I happen to appreciate the drama of it."

Just as suddenly, the tension between the two of you breaks as you laugh. For a second, she looks at you like you've gone insane, before she throws back her own head and laughs as well.

The laughter dies down after a second. You stand, still smiling at her, though a serious glint colors your eyes.

"Quinn… I'm _so_ sorry I haven't been there for you," you murmur softly, taking her hand in your own. "I am_ sorry_ I haven't seen you… Haven't phoned you.

"I was lost without Finn," you answer truthfully. "I'd been Finn's girl for so long, I forgot everything else. I was trying to get back to myself… to become a little bit of who I used to be… Without the extensive grammar, bitchiness, and OCD."

She laughs tearfully as you continue with a smile

"I got so lost in trying to get myself back… that… I guess I lost sight of people that mattered," your eyes flicker up. "I lost sight of _you_.

"I can't promise I'll always be there for you. I'll probably act like an ass sometime within the next few months and you'll want to kill me," you chuckle as she fights back another peal of laughter. "But I'll come and visit you at Yale. I'll Skype you, I'll text you. We can talk back and forth… I'll be the best friend I could possibly be.

"I'm just asking you," you squeeze her hand. "I'm just asking you to make the right choice here. _Please_ listen to me. Listen to me like I should've listened to you."

Something flickers in Quinn's eyes briefly. Something slightly golden and bottle green about her irises. A sort of fire that you'd seen once before, when she'd confronted you in the hall that day and brokenly asked if the song _had_ been for Finn.

Just as quickly it goes out though, hidden behind the chipped layers of her armor.

But Quinn smiles, she smiles and she hugs you, nodding against your shoulder as tears stream down her face.

You lock both arms around her and hold her there. Let her cry her frustration into your shoulder.

You know what sort of emptiness she's feeling.

You've been feeling it for the longest time.

But maybe you won't have to anymore, you think as Quinn slowly backs away from you, breath ghosting your lips.

There's a moment where she nearly leans forward… You can swear she does. That she wants to connect your lips…

But the moment, just as that ember in her eyes, dies as she rocks back on her heels, smiling shyly at you.

"So…" you clear your throat, before gesturing toward the door. "Now that we've had our dramatic, cinematic cry… What do you say we go stuff ourselves for Thanksgiving? ….Would you like to come to my house?"

"O-Oh," Quinn's cheers turn a rosy red. "I…"

"You don't have to," you say gently (though your mind disagrees).

"I-…" she swallows, before looking up. "I'd really like to, Rachel."

"Great," you smile. "We can catch up…. You know, beyond all this… messy… boyfriend stuff. I'd love to hear about Yale."

The smile that she dazzles you with nearly takes your breath away. "Alright… that'd be amazing."

The two of you leave the choir room, hand in hand, walking down the empty, ghost-like halls of McKinley High, leaving the past in the rearview mirror.

And as the dented, red metal doors fall shut behind you, ending one part of your life, you sense a new beginning.

One that's started this very second as the emptiness in your heart gives way to warmth and fills the slightest fraction.

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**A/N:** Hope y'all enjoyed it. You wanna follow me, my Tumblr link is in my profile.

Let me know what you think, yeah?


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